The Groupie of Dol Guldur
by Wild Iris
Summary: Úlairiel, maiden of Mirkwood, crashes the all-boys Ringwraith club. Parody, AU; rated for disturbing imagery of spooning Nazgûl. Complete.
1. Fytte the First

A/N: Apologies if this has already been done.  It's just a bit of fun, and no offence is intended to any stories in particular :)  
Any names you recognize are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien; anything stupid I happily claim as my own.

**The Groupie of Dol Guldur**

I

Úlairiel sang to herself as she ambled through the forest of Mirkwood; bits from the Lay of Leithian, mixed in an avant-garde way with what she could remember of the Lay of Nimrodel.  Occasionally she took a pot-shot at one of the black squirrels, with the vague idea of wearing a dramatic squirrel fur ensemble to King Thranduil's being-begotten-day party.  

Úlairiel was a tall, slender Elf-maiden, whose hair streamed behind her like the great banner of the Woodland Realm (only not green).  Her eyes were like pearls fresh from the inner processes of the oyster.  She wore a long gown of cloudy silver, now marred poignantly with blood from a brace of squirrels slung over her shoulder.  She bore a bow taller than herself, inlaid with gold and strung with her own hair.  Her arrows were flighted with beautiful dodo feathers.

Singing, ambling and collecting squirrels, Úlairiel wandered a long way.  Suddenly she bumped into a tree and realized that it was getting dark.  She had left the path a long time ago, and had since covered distances that defied the laws of physics; now she faced the fact that she was lost.  Looking searchingly at the trees helped little; she found it hard to tell one tree from another even in daylight.

"Woe is me!" cried Úlairiel.  "Alas, for I shall perish in this wood, never to have known love!"  She collapsed tearfully under a tree.

Then a bird screeched somewhere in the forest, and, like a sign, Úlairiel saw a light through the trees.  Seizing her bow and squirrels, she rose and began to make her way towards the glimmer.  As she walked, more lights were revealed, and finally she rounded an enormous tree and saw a hill crowned with a great fortress.  Towers, flying buttresses, minarets; it was truly an impressive place.  The windows from which the lights shone were slits placed extremely high, and there seemed to be only one, small door with hefty iron bars across it, but to Úlairiel in her fraught state it was welcoming indeed.

She scrambled up the slope of the hill and hammered on the outer gate.  "Please permit me entrance," she called, "I am but an Elf-maiden, lost and alone!"

The gate flew open as though she had spoken a magic password.  "An Elf-maiden, lost and alone?" said a voice like razor blades being sharpened.  "My Lord bids you enter!"  And a hand in very spiky mail shot out of the gate, grabbed her neck and yanked her in.

"Ow!" cried Úlairiel, whose skin was delicate.  "Unhand me – " Then she fell silent as she beheld her captor.

She had never seen a male like him in all her two thousand and eighteen years.  The armour that covered his whole body was moulded into the shapes of formidable muscles.  Scored steel winked in the light of a guttering torch.  His cloak was black and fell in sweeping folds.  His hood enveloped his face, giving him a sexy highwayman look, but it was the face itself that made Úlairiel's heart flutter like a butterfly on a pin: a bottomless abyss in which she could drown.

"Oh…" she murmured.

She was affecting him too, she could tell; he stood stock still for a moment, the edges of his cowl trembling slightly.  In truth, never had such a sight been seen in the gloomy fortress as Úlairiel in all her beauty, standing with red and parted lips amid the shadows.

His gaze was too much for her, and she took a step backwards, fetching up against a corpse that was hanging on the wall.  She detached a set of fingers from her shoulder almost without noticing, staring at the figure who, she felt, must be her true love, the love she had foreseen in dreams and whose existence had been prophesised by one of the lost Istari (who had briefly emerged from the wilderness to bless her cradle).

"May I know the name of my lord?" she whispered.

"This ssservant...," he hissed, "lieutenant of Dol Guldur...of the Nazgûl...fair female."

"A Nazgûl?" Úlairiel gasped.  She had heard so many stories of the Nazgûl, but had never dreamed of meeting one.  He must be possessed of awesome powers, as well as being a king.  "But what is your name?"

"Name..."

"Yes.  I mean, I'm Úlairiel."

"This ssservant 'ssservant' to my Lord...'#5' among Nazgûl."

"#5," Úlairiel mused.  She had seldom heard such a beautiful name; it was like music, and it fitted him to perfection.

"Úlairiel...," he breathed close to her ear, making it tingle with cold and delight.

"#5..."

He was bending over her, and Úlairiel was lost in the infinity beneath his hood.  Black velvet swirled around her eyes.  Her hands tentatively touched his steel breastplate.

"I would stay with you," she murmured, after some minutes.

"Ride often...many dangersss...," he said.

"I can ride," she declared, "I'm strong and I'm not afraid.  Where you go, I will go."

"Go with...Nine?...Never done...before…Lord must be…asssked…"

"I will ask him if need be!" Úlairiel said passionately.  "No-one will part us!  And anyway, why shouldn't there be more than nine in your gang?  Another person could be wonderfully useful!  And I'm a great shot – see these?"

She gave #5 a squirrel in token of her love.  Then she marched into the fortress, fortuitously finding the stairs first time, and went up to find the master of Dol Guldur.


	2. Fytte the Second

A/N: Thanks to all reviewers. You are too nice. I hope I haven't lost my way with this part; please tell me how you think it might be improved.

**The Groupie of Dol Guldur**

II

Úlairiel bounded up the spiral stairs, leaping over crumbled steps and discarded bones with an agility born of her determined love.  At the head of the flight was an iron-studded door.  She tried the gargoyle knocker once, and then threw her slight but strong weight against the wood.  It yielded instantly in a shriek of splinters.

Within was a shadowy chamber of strange proportions.  Scattered thickly around the walls, and dangling from the ceiling, was an array of jars, retorts and crucibles, giving off malodorous smoke of various hues.  There were also an ostentatious number of arcane books, lined up on shelves and piled on a rickety desk.  Curiously, Úlairiel tugged open a drawer of the desk, and found a neat stack of headed writing paper:

_The Necromancer   
Flat 1a, The Fortress   
Dol Guldur   
Mirkwood (South)_

Then she heard a sound behind her; a shuffling of wind, as though the air were trying to hurry out of something's way.  She turned.  There stood a figure wearing purple robes, a tall hat stuck all over with silver stars, a beard that covered his face, neck and most of his chest, and little wire-rimmed spectacles.  In his hand he carried a wand.  Pinned to his collar was a badge that read, in curly script, "The Necromancer".

"Lord Sauron!" said Úlairiel.

The Necromancer's crimson eyes flared hotly (melting the lenses of his spectacles), and his garments collapsed in on themselves and tumbled to the floor.  He stood revealed in his true colours: as a disembodied manifestation of pure evil.

"Curses!" he said, reverting tellingly to the Black Speech of Mordor.  "How have I fallen so, to be unmasked by a mere Elf-maid?" 

Úlairiel didn't understand the Black Speech, but, staring at the single eye that now floated amid a dissipating cloud of smoke, she was impressed by what she had accomplished with a simple greeting.  It seemed she might possess hitherto unknown abilities.

"Lord Sauron," she began again, staring him straight in the eye, "I am Úlairiel, a warrior-maiden.  I crave leave to travel with your Riders, and aid them in their duty, for my heart is bounden to the fair #5, and I have vowed that no fate shall sunder us."

And the great Eye flickered, for the shimmering hair and snowy gown of Úlairiel did abrade it, so accustomed to darkness, and its owner was beginning to appreciate the purpose of eyelids.  His bodiless Voice performed the seemingly impossible feat of spluttering.

"Travel with my Riders?" he said finally.  "Never!  My Riders are fell warriors, not fair wenches."

"Oh, Lord Sauron! That is so last age," said Úlairiel.  "In my land, maidens may do anything they wish.  They study the arts of weaponry, and – well, they don't go to fight exactly, but still – "

"Peace!" said the Voice, attempting to thunder echoingly, but quavering a little.  "None passes here against my will.  Therefore, you shall justify yourself or die.  Servant!  Summon the Nine."

A screen in the corner toppled over, revealing the Dark Lord's secret workspace. Úlairiel gazed in wonder at a high throne carved of blackest ebony.  On a coffee table by the throne stood a perfectly spherical rock and a ring tree laden with golden rings. The Eye floated over and hovered above the throne.  Strange coils of colour, red and violet and ultramarine, began to swirl within the spherical rock.  The sounds of breath hissing and armour clanking came from the stairs. In smooth formation, the nine black-robed figures of the Nazgûl passed into the room and ranged themselves about their lord.

Úlairiel's eyes sought her beloved and found him easily; the others were handsome enough, but none possessed his graceful poise or magnificent physique.  His hood was bowed in deference to Sauron, but, as she watched, it lifted slightly and his bottomless gaze devoured her own.  She flushed and trembled.

"Servants," said the Voice, "we have a great task at hand, a labour on which rests the fate of Middle-earth."  The Eye twitched involuntarily towards the ring tree.  "The slightest error may be crucial.  You are the Nine – " here he began to sound a little uncertain – "my foremost and eternal servants.  You have ever numbered Nine, and the reason thereof needs no telling – " here he wavered, the Eye glancing in a confused manner between the Nazgûl and the rings – "but now, in these times of stirring, another wishes to join your ranks.  She is Úlairiel, a warrior-maiden."

Úlairiel stood fair and proud as the Wraiths appraised her, brandishing her bow and only smiling as one or other hissed in evident disapproval.  Her eyes met #5 once more, and she drew strength from their unspoken communion of love.

"Maidensss?" spoke the tallest of the Nazgûl, who wore a helm with a crown of iron.  "We are Nasssgûl.  What need have we of maidensss?"

"I am slender, but strong," declared Úlairiel. "I can ride, I can shoot, and I don't need a five-foot long sword to bolster my ego," she concluded, eyeing the weapon of her interlocutor.

The Witch-King stared at the floor and shuffled his feet.  Úlairiel mentally marked him down as a troublemaker and likely oppressor of femalekind. 

"Thisss ssservant vouchesss for her," said #5, bowing to the Eye.  "Ssshe knowsss much…has ssspirit and ssskillsss."

Úlairiel's heart sang to hear her love defend her, and she threw him a long look of adoration and gratitude.  Another Nazgûl, the smallest of the company, nodded as if agreeing with #5, and she warmed to him also.  The others simply breathed and looked uncomfortable.

There was a pause thick with battling wills.  Úlairiel fixed her gaze steadfastly on the Eye. "Right," said the Dark Lord eventually.  "As it seems…fitting, then, I decree that the warrior-maiden Úlairiel shall ride with the Nine Riders, and be known as an honorary Ringwraith…"

"I don't have to be dead, do I?" said Úlairiel, suddenly nervous.  Nevertheless, she was set to face staunchly whatever might be needful in the service of love.

The Voice muttered something inaudible in the Black Speech, and then said, "Not really…can waive that part.  Do you have a ring?"

"A ring? Sure," said Úlairiel.  She took off a ring that she wore on her right hand.  It was adorned with a big glass heart, the colour of which changed according to her prevailing mood.

"Place it on the tree," said the Dark Lord.

Úlairiel hung her ring on the ring tree, next to a group of nine gold rings that flickered with a strange light.  A murmur rippled through the Wraiths.  She turned and saluted the Eye.  "Lord Sauron," she said, "you will not regret admitting me to your company."

The Voice made a strangled noise.  The Eye jerked helplessly from side to side.


	3. Fytte the Third

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien's Estate owns everything, except Úlairiel, whom it probably wouldn't want.

**The Groupie of Dol Guldur**

III

Several moons had waxed, waned, given up and been prodded back into the sky by Varda since Úlairiel had come to dwell in Dol Guldur.

Úlairiel had been allotted her own chamber near the base of the high tower.  It had originally been furnished according to the needs of the Wraiths, being bare save for a spike for hanging cloaks and another for hanging torture victims, but her clever hands had quickly made it comfortable.  She had hung festoons of fairy lights, a gift from her beloved, who had brought them back from a raid on Lothlórien.  On the floor were fluffy cushions that Úlairiel had discovered the Orcs weaving in a secluded storeroom.  A long mirror had been installed so that she could judge the impact of her new Ringwraith garb: robes of a subtle rigor mortis grey, and a cloak of silk that pooled in black tides about her feet.  On the mantel shelf was a portrait of the fair #5, executed in that gallant cross-stitch that heeds not marred and riven fingers.

Úlairiel had spent many hours in the practice yard of the fortress, training for her new duties, and all had marvelled at her prowess with sword and horse.  The mightiest blade seemed as light as a willow-wand in her grasp.  The great steeds of the Nazgûl, with their bloodstained hoofs and hides of night, whinnied into her hand for sugar lumps and let her dress their manes with lavender ribbons.  And it was declared that no one had ever learned faster the art of steering a pterodactyl.

Amidst all this activity, she and her beloved snatched many precious moments together.  Often they sat on a gently smoking ash-heap in the bailey.  He clasped her white hand between his gauntlets; she touched his invisible cheek and planted soft kisses around his glowing eyes.  She was fascinated by his sorcerous flesh, knitted and moved by will; so unlike the irrational matter of common beings.  Pressed close together, they shared memories and dreams of the centuries before they had met.  He told her of his kingdom long ago, and of how taxing kingship was, and how being a Wraith was in many ways much simpler.  She, in turn, told him of her lonely childhood as an orphan, after her father had been killed in the forest when an eagle dropped a wizard on to his head; and of how she had never truly belonged in the Woodland Realm, but at Dol Guldur had finally found her home.  

They made plans to be handfasted, as soon as Úlairiel was fully established within the company of Ringwraiths.  The others of the Nazgûl did indeed now accept her presence. If her skill in arms were not sufficient credit, she also won admiration for her avant-garde singing and the facility with which she picked up the Black Speech.  The smallest Nazgûl was especially grateful to her for killing a large spider in his bathtub.  Even the Witch-King had been forced to recognize her skills, though he still avoided her eyes when he encountered her, and requested that she ride her pterodactyl sidesaddle.  The Lord Sauron, for his part, appeared to have no objection to the marriage, though admittedly he had spoken little since Úlairiel's arrival and spent most of the time locked in his room.

The time came for Úlairiel to undertake her first mission as an honorary Ringwraith.  She was eager to prove her service to the company, not only for her beloved's sake but because she greatly empathized with Lord Sauron's plight, once she understood it.  A favourite piece of jewellery of her own had once disappeared, and she had felt bereft for days.  (She rather suspected King Thranduil.)  

Accordingly, it was arranged for her to travel with one of the parties that went oft-times down to the Anduin, to trawl the river for Lord Sauron's lost ring.  The party consisted mostly of Orcs, wearing rubber suits and waders.  The Ten, led by the Witch-King, rode at its head.  Úlairiel took her place alongside her betrothed.  She was swathed in her black cloak and her fair face was masked. She sat proudly straight as the troop passed beneath the iron-toothed portcullis and on to the westward road.

"Dearessst," murmured #5 as they trotted.  "You give me new ssstrength for battlesss."

"Maidensss," muttered the Witch-King.

"Ssso beautiful, yet unusssual," thought Nazgûl #2.

"Sssturdy protectresss," marvelled the small Wraith.

"Ssstrange tongue," puzzled #7.

"Ssstrange eyesss," blinked #9.

They came to a stream.  The horse of Nazgûl #6 stumbled in the stony ford, but a quick movement by Úlairiel prevented the rider from falling.  They passed then into a dark thicket.  The Orcs gibbered in fear of the trees, but Úlairiel sang softly to calm their nerves.  It grew cold as the night deepened, but Úlairiel produced a flask from her saddlebag and introduced the company to the properties of miruvor.

When they reached the Anduin, the Orcs splashed into the water and began to scrabble in its shallows.  The Wraiths ranked themselves along the bank to oversee the operation.  Úlairiel found herself studying the Orcs' ineffectual passes with pans and shrimping nets.  After an hour, they had caught a boot, the rust-eaten remains of a kettle, three fish and an unidentifiable slimy object.

"There must be a better way of doing this," she said.

"Really?" sniffed the Witch-King.

"It seems to me," she said, "that the ring is most likely to have ended up in one of the deeper bits.  Otherwise, wouldn't it just have been washed away?"

"And you would know about these thingsss?" he said.  "We have been dredging river for centuriesss."

"Exactly!" said Úlairiel. "You need to try something different."

"Who could ssswim down there?" he queried, pointing with his sword towards a dark place in the centre of the river.

"I could," said Úlairiel.  She had always prided herself on being an excellent swimmer, and had even bathed in the Enchanted River with no ill effects.

Úlairiel strode over to a high rock, casually stripped down to her Ringwraith-issue black underclothes, and swallow-dived into the deep pool.  The water was murky, but her keen sight penetrated the sludge and scanned along the bottom.  At first, she saw nothing of interest: weeds, fish bones and rocks.  She swam in a circle, magnificently holding her course against the tugging current.  The skull of an eel winked at her.  Suddenly, a glint caught her eye as water stirred the sediment: a flash of gold.  She reached out and grabbed the object.

Úlairiel swam back to the surface.  #5 gazed at her, enraptured, as she waded from the water, her hair glistening in the faint moonlight.  She opened her hand.  On her palm lay a golden ring that seemed, oddly enough, to be exactly her size.  She smiled at her beloved, and showed her find to the assembled Nazgûl.

"One Ring!" gasped the Witch-King.  He took it from her, and bit it.  "It isss found!"  A rising chorus of excited hisses came from the other Wraiths, and they clashed their swords together.  "Our hour hasss come!"

The company turned around and galloped pell-mell back to Dol Guldur.  There they found that the Eye had already seen the night's adventure, and a newly solid figure met them, flickering with power.  Thunder cracked over the fortress as Sauron slipped the ring on to one of his new fingers. 

For several days, there was merrymaking in the fortress.  The Dark Lord immediately gave orders for the marriage of Úlairiel and #5.  One afternoon, in a solemn ceremony before Sauron and the Nazgûl, the couple declared their intentions and vowed their eternal love.  

That night, they retired to the fluffy cushions in Úlairiel's chamber in order to cement their union.  Úlairiel was floating in bliss. Her love was strong, her career was booming, and there were particular benefits, she discovered, in having a man whose flesh was subordinate to his will.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to all reviewers, and to Aralanthiriel for offering to include this silly story in the Hidden Archives.  Please keep commenting, and let me know if I've gone off the rails!

To answer a query: the word "fytte" (or "fit") is archaic English, and literally refers to a section of a poem; it can also be used humorously to denote an episode in a great Saga.

Re. "pterodactyl": Tolkien said that the winged mounts of the Nazgûl weren't pterodactyls, exactly, but were inspired by dinosaur lore and were "pterodactylic".  (_Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_, London: Allen & Unwin, 1981, p. 282.)  I called them pterodactyls because it's hard to think of another single-word title, and because – well – it sounds amusing.

If anyone wants to see the river scene done seriously, you can find it in my story "House of Leaves".  Not that I beg or anything.


	4. Fytte the Fourth

Disclaimer: Middle-earth and its inhabitants belong to the Tolkien Estate. This story is a fanfiction written for nonprofit entertainment purposes only, and no infringement is intended.

**The Groupie of Dol Guldur**

IV

The Lord Sauron seemed greatly happier now that his ring had been recovered.  He was observed to pause frequently at mirrors and puddles in order to admire his new, manly form.  Overnight, he agreed to the Orcs' longstanding requests for employee dental plans and a day nursery.  And he spent a night in conference with the Ten and other of his faithful captains, looking over his old Three Thousand Year Plan for the domination of all life and condensing it into six months.

Now able to leave the fortress where he had so long lurked, embarrassingly bodiless, Sauron elected to make his presence felt once more in the strongholds of Mordor.  The Nazgûl had there maintained a skeleton administration during his exile, but without the master's touch, things had inevitably slackened.  Servitors took advantage to stretch out their lunch breaks, and the Nazgûl were very inefficient at forwarding mail.  The Dark Lord intended to restore proper discipline, as well as to enjoy again his rightful throne at Barad-dûr.

The greater part of the Ten accompanied their liege to Mordor, yet Úlairiel and #5, being wed yet but a handful of days, were permitted to linger at Dol Guldur and follow at their leisure.  Left alone, save for a few attendants, they savoured a private honeymoon.  It was an idyllic interval of love.  The moon rose at night on their tender awakenings, curled close together on the throw rugs of Úlairiel's chamber or the filmy stones of her husband's.  After a light, trans-planar breakfast (for Ringwraith croissants, like their bodies, exist most fully in the twilight realm), they donned their robes and passed the nights according to their mutual desire.  

Sometimes they explored the fortress, swapping bets with the dungeon guards or playing hide-and-seek among the pillars of the great hall.  At other times, Úlairiel would take a bath in the castle cistern while #5 tenderly rasped her back.  More often, they rode out into the forest.  Close by the fortress were any number of dark, rustling arbours overhung by writhen trees, which made enchanting picnic spots.  Úlairiel loved to lie with her beloved beneath the leaves, listening to birds and squirrels fleeing at the sound of his potent voice.  His lambent eyes through the blackness were like to twin lodestars guiding her spirit.

But their favourite recreation was to soar side by side upon their aerial steeds, pacing the shrieking winds as the grey forest slipped by beneath them.  On the fifth night of their honeymoon, they embarked upon a particularly adventurous ride.  It was a clear night.  The air above the treetops was cold and bracing.  The great beasts beat their wings tirelessly, refreshing themselves by catching eagles in midair.  Úlairiel stole many secret glances at her love as they flew, her breath hitching at the sight of his armoured thews gripping the pterodactyl's hide.  #5, in turn, was dazzled as the flag of her hair swept this way and that, white gold in the moonlight.

Below, nothing stirred.  Úlairiel commented on the tranquillity of the forest, and #5 assured her that sssuch was only a pale ssshadow of the blessssings to come under Lord Sssauron's New Mordorian Democrasssy.

"Rayssse you!" he called suddenly, and speeded ahead.

Úlairiel laughed, like a carillon of mithril bells, and spurred her mount.  "_Noro lim_, Teri, _noro lim_!"

They were flying westward, the forest rapidly thinning as the mounts attained terminal velocity.  Úlairiel's hands moved on the reins with exquisite skill.  After only a few seconds, she drew near to the shoulder of #5's pterodactyl.  They playfully wrestled for the lead.

The bushy scrubland that bordered the forest was only a blur below.  Ahead, the Anduin skulked like black treacle at the bottom of its shadowed valley.

An apt endearment in the Black Speech produced a spurt of extra effort from Úlairiel's steed, and she edged in front of her husband.  The other steed faltered, dropping fifty feet, as the coruscating mass of Úlairiel's hair was blown back into its eyes.  #5 swiftly regained control and pursued her, hissing delicious threats that travelled on the wind to her thrilled ears.  A long way beneath them, two diminutive figures on the riverbank witnessed the chase, and decided then and there to give up fishing and go home to their grandmother.

On the far side of the river was rising ground covered with trees.  These trees were tall and mighty, requiring greater altitude from an airborne voyager.  Úlairiel performed some mental calculations, forgot to carry the three, tugged on the reins and collided with a branch, which broke.  There was a loud crack, and a shiver ran through the stand of trees.  Úlairiel clucked her tongue in annoyance.  She corrected her course and turned in the saddle to watch the progress of her beloved.  And then there came a familiar sound, like a seam in the sky tearing, and a white-feathered arrow appeared in her pterodactyl's neck.

"Bother!" said Úlairiel.

The valiant creature's wings flailed for a brief instant, then sank to its sides.  With impressive inevitability, Úlairiel and Terion plummeted earthward.

  
  


Úlairiel felt most strange.  Numerous of her corporeal parts ached, yet a deep, tingling power was within her.  She opened one eye and saw her hand, lying on the turf beside her head.  The stone of her ring was glowing bright blue, indicating extreme vitality and perkiness.

There were voices above her.

"At times you are too hasty to draw, brother."

"Never did I expect such a thing," the second responded.  "Can she - can she be whom I think?"

"A damsel of such beauty, who falls from the sky, must surely be the Lady Elwing," said the first.  "And when Imladris declares war on us, I shall make it clear that it was you that shot her."

"I fear it is yet worse," said the second, his voice trembling.  "See how radiant is her visage, and how her hair shines more golden even than the tresses of our mistress.  She must surely be the glorious Arien."

"You felled the Sun. Oh, well _done_, Rumíl."

"I did not mean to!"

"I do not wish to return to the years of Starlight!  We have grown beyond that as a culture!"

Úlairiel, feeling increasingly formidable, thought that it was time to make her presence felt.  She sat up and drew her dagger from its sheath in one liquid movement.  Brandishing the weapon high, she locked eyes with her opponents.

The Elven border guards found themselves confronted by a gaze that was, against all probabilities, red.  They took a step backwards as Úlairiel produced a ladylike rapier to join the dagger. A sound like escaping lava came from deep within her throat.

"You are within the bounds of – " began the one who was not called Rumíl.

Úlairiel's sword sliced his bowstring into thirds.

The pair beat a strategic retreat into the undergrowth.

Úlairiel paced the small clearing in which she found herself, leaving patches of desiccated grass in the shapes of her small feet.  There was no sign of Terion; nor did she know where her beloved's flight might have ended.  She knew that he would be close by, however.  While the forest could hold no fear for a Ringwraith, #5, made simple by love, would have nonetheless lingered in the hope of discovering and aiding her.

Úlairiel straightened her robes and set off along a likely looking path.  Her aches were fading rapidly.  She barely noticed snails hurrying out of her way, and fallen leaves turning black wherever she brushed against them.  She would march into Caras Galadhon, pick up some more fairy lights, and then hasten to reunite with her beloved.  By good chance, he would still be furnished with his own mount.  Being unhorsed was a recognized occupational hazard, but one simply had to get right back on.

  
  


A/N: many thanks, again, to all reviewers, particularly those who wanted the honeymoon! This will probably be the penultimate part of the saga. Constructive criticism is always welcome.


	5. Fytte the Last

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien created this universe; his heirs own the rights to it; I'm just playing, and promise to repair what I destroy. No money was made, nor Dark Lords traumatized, in the course of this venture.

Apologies for the huge delay in drawing this ragbag of a yarn to some kind of conclusion. This episode is for Ellipsis and Architeuthis, whose plot suggestions were music to my heroine's ears.

**The Groupie of Dol Guldur**

V

During the starless night, while bats tracked across the sky and trees groaned beyond the fortress walls, Úlairiel and #5 laid a simple stone marker for her steed and comrade Teri, believed barbecued by Elves of Lórien.

Tears pricked Úlairiel's eyes and issued forth in a silver stream, turning her cerulean orbs yet more iridescent. She leaned back against her husband, who wrapped her in the deathless strength of his steel-clad arms. #5 stroked the pale hair that flowed over his gauntlets like melting ice-cream. "Weep not," he murmured. "Elvesss all die. Treeesss burn. Sssnookums promissess."

Úlairiel nodded, accepting his comfort and taking hold of her wayward feminine emotions. After all, the ignoble end of Teri was only a minor blot on her flourishing happiness. Each night, when dusk descended, she awoke to her perfect lover, clutching at one or other of his more accessible body parts. For fomenting charges of Kinslaying between Lórien and Rivendell, she had been praised in a memo signed by Lord Sauron himself. And she was beginning to enjoy the state that #5 called 'abrupt devivification' or, in his most tender and soothing moods, 'being animationally challenged'. Once Úlairiel had grasped the nettle of being dead, she could truly appreciate why mortals were envied this particular adventure. She was as beautiful as ever, if not more so, and as a side benefit, had seemingly become more or less invincible. Her already abundant skills and strength were enhanced to megalomaniac proportions. She had spent happy hours trying them out, she and #5 clashing morgul blades in the courtyard, or holding a mirthful contest to see who could ululate the louder. She enjoyed popping into the Wraith-world – there was a superb view of Barad-dûr from there. So yes, she was more than content, although she had loved unlucky Teri as if he were her own child.

At that thought, Úlairiel realized that there was a gap in her happiness, and she turned in #5's embrace. "Beloved," she began huskily, folding her slender arms about his powerful neck, "do you wish for the greatest gift of my love? Have you wondered whether we might have a child?"

Those words released a dam within her spirit, and she knew then that she desired nothing more in Arda than to hear the patter of tiny sabatons within the fortress' halls. "Ah, beloved," she cried, "how I do crave to nourish your seed in me!"

#5 looked thoughtful, and stroked her hair a while. He told her then that such matters could be difficult amongst the living dead. "Not impossssible, dearessst," he said, "asss my lord learned from hisss own Massster. Now you have ssspoken, I do yearn to sssee the offssspring of your beautiful flesssh. My lord will give good advyssse to ussss."

Úlairiel was overcome with delight, which she could express no better than by leading #5 to their chambers in order to begin their quest forthwith. Six hours later, they left the fortress and embarked for Barad-dûr.

Riding pillion with her husband on his soaring mount, Úlairiel sang as the wind toyed with her hair, all vestiges of woe dispersed like morning mist before the midday sun. She thrilled with the anticipation of seeing Lord Sauron's greatest fortress, currently being rebuilt (after some incident involving a volcano) on a design that she had suggested. As they drew nearer, rags of smoke and vapour made her sensitive Wraith-nose tingle. It was not long before she saw the rising edifice, wreathed in gauzy fumes; a ring of black stone on foundations of solid rock, over which scuttled the tiny forms of Orc labourers. A Nazgûl – #3, thought Úlairiel – circled the site on graceful pterodactyl wings, overseeing the diligence of the Orcs. It was a magnificent vista, and Úlairiel could yet scarcely believe that she, an unfortunate orphan of the Woodland Realm, was come to dwell in such a place.

They touched down on a temporary airstrip just outside the walls, near a cluster of prefabricated huts currently housing the less vital administrative departments. The smallest Nazgûl, chosen for unavoidable tasks of civilian diplomacy, was in the visitors' office, coldly explaining to a representative from Emyn Arnen Windows that the new building did not require double glazing, and there was a reason why its windows were of spectral green glass and a friable Gothic shape, thank you very much.

Úlairiel hugged the smallest Nazgûl, and then she and #5 swept quickly through the gates and into the fortress. Within, Barad-dûr seemed no less fair than without. Its walls were of marble, black and finely cut, that seemed to swallow the light of the occasional guttering torch; its ironwork was likewise black, and wrought in divers shapes as of a wondrous bestiary; and about the halls there hung a green shade. Úlairiel gazed about her in frank appreciation, twisting her cowled head this way and that in order to see properly. "The lights…" she said. "The people… the things… er, other people…"

#5 tucked her gauntlet possessively under his vambraces. "Dearesst," he murmured. "Be ssso happy here."

Úlairiel nodded. She felt almost giddy, and if not already beyond the weaknesses of the flesh, might have thought that the pervasive volcanic gases had something to do with it. Her new home was stunning. She could imagine no better place in which to live out an eternity of political reorganization, hard riding in groves and valleys, and nursing small Wraithlings.

That reminder of her urgent errand caused Úlairiel to stride faster along the corridors, and within a short space they arrived at Lord Sauron's council chamber. The Dark Lord of Mordor looked well indeed; using the power of the Ring, he had enhanced his physique still further, and was now most… manly. He acknowledged Úlairiel and #5 briskly, and gave them a belated wedding present – some morgul spoons.

The lovers had arrived in the middle of an important planning meeting, and thus Úlairiel waited patiently for an hour, suggesting wisely how the captains might take advantage of the incipient Kinslaying, before she was able to seek audience with Lord Sauron for her private needs. He seemed to halt at her gentle request, but gathered himself. He pointed her to his corner office (past the Orc secretary, the one with the palantír) and they sat down. Then he squirmed a little, got up, called for coffee, and downed a large swig. Finally, he signed for Úlairiel to speak.

Swiftly, she explained her cause: that she longed to bear the sweet fruit of #5's fair loins, not only for the love she bore her husband, but for the increase of their kind. She saw Lord Sauron's face grow thoughtful for a time as she spoke; then as she continued he seemed vexed, and eventually he cut off her flow of eloquence.

"Please," he said, making feeble motions with his fingers. "Faithful #10, you still have things to learn of beings like ourselves." Sauron felt tongue-tied by a strange compulsion not to hurt his newest captain's feelings, and was quite unable to utter the phrases topmost in his mind. He approached the subject at an angle. "Know you the science of genetics?"

"Not really," said Úlairiel. She had heard, however, that Lord Sauron was learned in various arcane disciplines, having inherited a lab and specimens from his former boss. "Why?"

Sauron tried to explain that for beings that existed simply as spirit, without corporeal forms other than those which they made or borrowed to walk in the outer world, breeding was considered a headache. "We may house ourselves in these forms," he said, warming to the lecture, "but we have no blood that is uniquely ours to pass on to our children. Hence the fondness of my race for crafting our pets out of extant materials. The one time it was attempted otherwise, the consequences were disastrous. I presume you know the legend of Lúthion?"

"Lúthien?" said Úlairiel.

"Lúthion," he said. "A failed experiment. The mother – one of the Ainur, like myself – carried the child, but as her body was merely a magical simulacrum of flesh, the said infant when born looked disturbingly like its father. The family staged a ludicrous cover-up – locking young Lúthion in a treehouse, making him wear a Hallowe'en mask in public, and finally having him marooned on an island, all the while paying minstrels to spread tales about his extraordinary loveliness."

Úlairiel flushed a little, remembering how she had heedlessly sung the Lay of Leithian in the halls of Dol Guldur. "Is there then no hope?" she said plaintively, looking down at her smoky Wraith-form. She could hardly bear to be frustrated in this one goal. She had found her love, and was wed to him for all eternity; she had helped sway the tide of war, and was sure to get at least a continent of her own once the dust had settled. Was it too much to expect the one thing that would complete her joy?

Lord Sauron sighed, and wandered through one of the green, Gothic windows on to a balcony outside the office. Temporary battlements had been erected there, so that while the fortress' towers were yet unfinished, he might still survey his dominions and let his glowing Eye hang out. He heard a feather-light footstep as Úlairiel followed him. Wincing, he kicked a small potted plant.

"There is one possibility," he muttered. Standing at the rail, his roving gaze took in the spread of plains and mountains that was his domain; even veiled as it was in smoke, and echoing with the wails of the man from Emyn Arnen Windows, the fair treeless landscape was somehow less satisfying than it had been even the day before. Not even his buff physique reflected in the windows made his immortal spirit race much. "My Master – imprisoned by the Lords of the West. I had been hoping to engineer his return in savage and terrible glory." Sauron felt remarkably tired, considering the newness of his body. "He created the Dragons, and re-sculpted the fabric of Arda, and... might be able to suggest a solution to your problem."

"Really?" said Úlairiel. Her downcast eyes were suddenly lit with excitement. Not only was she consumed by the longing to replicate her beloved, but she was intrigued at the thought of meeting Melkor; she had heard that he was close to being her equal in the art of avant-garde singing. "Will engineering his return be difficult?"

Sauron took a long, hard look at Úlairiel's set jaw and vibrant gaze. "Probably not," he said. He sighed once more. Úlairiel's expression grew brighter still; roses effloresced in her cheeks, and a sound like a cheery kettle emanated from her fair throat. Sauron almost stepped back because he thought she was about to kiss and embrace him.

"My lord," she cried, "I shall do all that is in my power to fulfil our twain long-cherished dreams!" Dancing and laughing in her now unalloyed happiness, Úlairiel sprang over the doorsill and flew away to seek out #5. The walls rang with a concert of silvery echoes behind her.

For some considerable time thereafter, as shadows thickened and spread, the Dark Lord of Mordor remained on his balcony, occasionally spitting gum on to Gorgoroth below.

The End

* * *

**A/N**: _sabatons_ are armour pieces worn on the feet; Úlairiel's "lights…people" line is borrowed from Douglas Adams, _The Restaurant at the End of the Universe_, which I felt like quoting right there. Many thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this silliness during the tortuous months of its production. May the favour of the Valar go with you!


End file.
